Two, Four, Six, Eight
by Heslen
Summary: Dove has always wanted an adventure, but not this one. Fletcher has a burning desire to make his mother proud. Gravis is what you might call a 'nihilist'. Promise just wants her perfect life back. Eight teenagers have very different stories throughout this year's Games, and in a fight to the death, not one of them will leave the arena the same person... if they leave at all.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I was sitting there thinking to myself, I've got plenty of stories that need updating, a few assignments waiting for me, and washing up to finish. So what do I do? Start a new multi-chapter story, of course! The idea for this came to me tribute by tribute. But I didn't want to waste them on SYOTs or the like, just in case the author stopped posting or their writing turned out to be a disappointment. So I decided to make my own story - but I'd never get to know 24 tributes in time to write them, and the story would be long enough that I'd likely never finish it. So, here we are with the product of a few combined dust bunny ideas. Enjoy. I do not own the Hunger Games.**

**On with the story. **

* * *

The alarm woke Fletcher at 4:30am.

His first, traitorous thought was _this is far too early. _Then he remembered just what day it was.

Shoving back the covers with more force than was probably necessary, Fletcher rolled out of bed. He changed into a random set of clothes that was lying on his desk and began to stretch out, careful not to wake his father in the next room. By the time he'd stretched out his torso, arms and legs, he was fully awake. Fletcher's mind churned with excitement as he grabbed a slice of bread from the pantry and headed out the front door.

_Reaping Day today. _

Fletcher began to jog along the street, stuffing the bread in his mouth. He couldn't see anyone else awake, but then he'd been quick this morning. It was eleven minutes to five, and along the eastern skyline a spectacular blend of pink, orange and gold unfurled as the sun began to rise. Fletcher barely saw it.

_Fourty-third Games, winner Joel Charles, District Five. Won by dropping a pebble off a cliff onto his competitor's head. Fourty-fourth Games, winner Ivy Blake, District One. Won by stabbing her Career pack while they slept and killing the other tributes one by one. Fourty-fifth Games... _Let it never be said that Fletcher Davis wasted a second of his time. He even considered strategy while doing his morning exercises.

Four minutes to five. One of the trainers in the Academy had mentioned once that fine detail can be hugely important. Fletcher had mentally jotted down the note and had never forgotten it, even for a moment. He checked his watch again. Three minutes to five.

Increasing his jogging speed, Fletcher pondered his pre-Arena strategies as he watched District Two pass by. The sun had definitely broken over the horizon now, and the street was glowing in the golden light. Morning dew glistened on the garden beds. As he passed, Fletcher categorized the plants. _Edible... non-edible... non-edible... healing properties... _His steps faltered and slowed as he passed a rosebush.

His mother's name had been Rose. She had died when he was just seven years old. Ill, the doctors had told his father. No cure. Sorry. As though 'sorry' would make it alright. She'd made him promise, though. Promise to make her proud of him. He'd been determined to do just that ever since.

Fletcher was eight when his district produced another Victor. He'd watched the screens, fascinated, as Marius Crest had received his crown, received the adoration of the Capitol, received fame and fortune and pride. And then he knew just how proud he could make his mother. Fletcher broke into a sprint.

Ever since then, Fletcher had trained the hardest to win the Games. When he was at home, he watched reruns of old Games with his father, talked strategy, learned how to act. He was ready now. He was prepared. And he was going to do this, win this, for his mother.

* * *

As the sunlight dragged her from pleasant dreams, Dove cursed herself for leaving the blinds open. The previous evening, she'd been stargazing and daydreaming when her mother announced her bedtime. Reluctantly, Dove had turned from the window, thinking to herself that night-dreaming was just as good as daydreaming, and had drifted off without another thought on the matter.

Now she regretted her lack of foresight. The old clock on the wall told her it was barely past five. Dove groaned quietly. She knew she would never be able to get back to sleep, but the pillows were so soft, and the mattress was so comfortable...

But no. There was work to be done, and it was Dove's job to see to it.

She hoisted herself out of bed and plodded sleepily to the mirror, to check on the state of her bedhair.

Oh, good god.

Her platinum blonde curls that she was so proud of during the day were frizzy and pouffy, lumped all over her head and hanging in her face, and where was her brush? Dove didn't consider herself a vain person, but when one has beauty one has every right to enjoy it, and it was no secret that her hair was the prettiest thing Dove could take credit for. Dove would not allow anyone to see her like this, not even close relatives. _Especially_ not her brothers.

Having finally found her brush, Dove combed out the tangled and fluffed the curls out around her shoulders. _Much better. _

Once it was tied up and scooped back into a cap, Dove dressed quickly and tiptoed downstairs, tripping on the final step and crashing into the wall opposite. Loudly.

Oops.

Ignoring the sounds of her parents and brothers stirring upstairs, Dove wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her knee. She helped herself to a small bowl of last night's special, her mum's homemade pie. That was one of the positives of her parents owning a restaurant: the food was always top class.

On the downside, almost all of Dove's spare time was spent helping out in the restaurant, and even when she did have free time, her parents were much too restraining to let her go out. So Dove turned to her imagination for company when she could. Usually, though, the perks outweighed the downsides. Dove had heard a lot of people say that Brightly's was the best restaurant in District 6, and she was inclined to agree, although she'd never eaten anywhere else, obviously.

Finishing her mince pie, Dove stacked her crockery in the sink, wet a cloth and headed into the dining room out the front. She wiped down all the tables - all twenty-eight of them - and set the chairs neatly in place. She began to lay out plates. By the time she was finished, her older brother Gabe had appeared.

"Morning, you," she told him.

"Egh blff gfa," he grunted. Gabriel Brightly was a man of very few words, until at least his second coffee. Dove chuckled and adjusted a knife so the blade was facing inwards.

_Brothers. _She set down a final plate and went to put the kettle on.

* * *

It was barely eight in the morning, and Fiesta had already changed her mind more than three times. And there were still some ten hours to go before the actual reapings.

The red dress with the halter neck, or the strapless blue? The white satin was also appealing, but Fiesta had momentarily decided that at 6pm, she'd look more like a ghost than a strong tribute.

She slipped the red halterneck off and pulled the blue one over her head, examining the colour with her hair in the mirror. Fiesta bit her lip. Blue did clash a bit with her strawberry blonde hair, but the shape of the dress was just gorgeous.

No. She couldn't go with the blue and look like an amateur in fashion choices, choosing just because the dress itself was pretty. Fiesta wasn't a girly girl, but she did have looks, and her training had taught her to play up every advantage she had for the Games.

The red, then?

No. As nice as the neckline was, red was even worse with her strawberry blondeness than the blue.

Fiesta sighed and tugged off the blue strapless, tossing it behind her onto the bed. She tried the white satin dress on again. Pretty. With a touch of makeup, she'd look stunning. But, still, Fiesta was not a ghost. She unzipped the material and slung it over the back of her chair. The 'maybe' pile. Fiesta turned her attention back to her wardrobe. She stared blankly at her collection of dresses, too bored of fashion choices to think anymore. She tugged on a pair of sweats and a tight shirt, cleared her bedroom floor, and flipped up into a handstand.

Muscles straining to hold herself in place, Fiesta stretched her legs as far apart as she could get them, and then slowly, slowly, lifted them back into place. She held the position for a few beats longer, then flipped back into standing, breathing hard. Her head spun a little, from the inertia of turning upside down. She sank into splits and leaned as far forward as she could, reaching her hands forward. She concentrated on keeping her back leg straight. But Fiesta had been at a party all of last night - her last night at home for a while - and she was too tired to be bothered to work now. She flopped onto her front leg, resting her head against her knee.

Boy, last night had been _wild. _

Oh, no, it was nothing like THAT. Fiesta didn't know anything about pregnancy, but the last thing she needed was a coming baby distracting her throughout her Games. Last night, she and a bunch of other Careers-in-training had gone out on a boat together. It had been crazy, and there had been alcohol. Fiesta had been asked out like five times. But how good would it look, having a hungover girl volunteer tonight? Fiesta hadn't touched the alcohol, but she was about the only one, since her newly assigned district partner hadn't wanted to come. Fiesta's best friend Jaida had drunk herself sick - literally - and nearly jumped into the ocean. Fiesta was on patrol duty the entire night, but it had still been loads of fun. The best send-off she could think of.

Flopping out of her splits, Fiesta returned to the wardrobe. The only thing she was definite on was that the outfit had to match with her tribute token: a coral bracelet. The colour was light orange, and Fiesta didn't actually have any dresses that matched, but not clashing was good enough for her.

After lunch and a swim, Fiesta's hours for decisions were running short. Eventually, she decided to stick with the white satin - there would be lighting in the square, Jaida assured her, and anyway, wouldn't she be striking as a ghost?

Fiesta eventually agreed and at five-thirty she found herself in the swishy white satin dress, with the coral bracelet at her wrist and a thin silver chain around her neck. Her hair was braided in spirals around her head, collected into a bun and tied with a white ribbon. She looked as nice as she'd ever seen herself, and hopefully it would be enough for her to impress the audience.

Most of District Four's recent volunteers had been 18. Fiesta was only 17, but she was sure she was talented enough to get the job done. Plus, she'd been performing for an audience since the age of four - she'd be fine with a contest that she didn't even have to remember a routine for. And when she got to the Capitol, there'd be no drama about her outfit: a Capitol stylist would make those decisions for her. All Fiesta had to do was prove herself.

And that started today, in... twenty minutes.

Better get a move on.

* * *

Hands numb, fingers wrinkled like raisins, Jordan squeezed water from a white blouse and hung it over the rack. He shifted a few dry clothing items onto a pile, folding them neatly. He had to hurry with his work - this employer could be a constant, so Jordan had to make a good impression. He desperately needed a steady source of income.

Not so long ago - had it been a year already? - the Hemmings family had been fairly well off. Then Jordan's job at the factory had been cancelled, his pay cut. Sickness had taken over the family not long after. Jordan didn't even want to think about what had happened to Poppy. His life had been pretty average up until last year. Now, each way Jordan turned, he could see his life unraveling as nightmares became realities.

He dreaded to think what might happen today.

Jordan returned his attention back to the tub of freezing water, ignoring the pool of dread in the bottom of his stomach. He grabbed a random set of white clothes and began to scrub the fabric. He was currently working for a small, private factory, washing plain sets of clothing before they were coloured and adorned with patterns, ready to be shipped away. Trained away. Driven away. Whatever. Jordan was light on details - his job was to wash the white clothing, nothing more.

A quick glance at the battered grandfather clock across the room told Jordan that he had only a few minutes to finish up before his shift was over and he could go home to prepare. He snatched a pair of stretchy leggings and squeezed the washwater from the fabric. He pegged it on the rack and peered into the tub. Only a few more pieces to go.

Once the last sock had been pegged out to dry, Jordan yanked the plug out and watched the water swirl away as he dried his hands. He hung his plain apron in the closet and made sure the room was neat before heading out of his basement workplace to check out with his boss.

Upstairs, Jordan glanced over to the desk in the front room. Mr Cavenough, the owner of the private factory, was absent for the moment, but his daughter Bridget manned the desk. She looked up from a sketch as he came closer.

"Hi," she said, sliding the sketch away from Jordan's prying eyes. He could make out a skirt that fell in ruffles the the subject's knees, but no more. "Can I help you, uh..."

"Jordan," he supplied quickly. "Jordan Hemmings. I just had a three-hour shift washing the white clothing. I'm about to head off, so..."

"Oh, of course!" Bridget jumped up and opened a drawer in the desk. "Hemmings..." she muttered, searching through a collection of envelopes. She selected one and handed it to him. It was labelled with his name and his shift length. Jordan could feel coins inside it. Bridget handed him an extra silver. "For finishing early," she explained.

Jordan thanked her politely. She pulled the skirt design towards her again and offered him luck for the reaping. He returned the favour and hurried outside , clutching his envelope and slipping the silver inside it.

By the time Jordan made it home, the burning midday sun had drenched his clothes in sweat. He gladly stepped into the cool shade of his home. His mother made him sit down at the table, and busied herself at the sink.

"It's fine, really," Jordan protested. His mother was busy enough as it was. "I'm just a bit hot."

"Nonsense," his mother smiled at him. "Look, I've just been decorating a set of washers. You can try them out." She ran a white cloth under the tap and laid it over Jordan's forehead.

"I can't _see_ it now, Ma," he pointed out. She laughed and passed him another cloth. It was thick white fabric with ivy designs running up and down the sides. Pretty. But in District Eight, everyone's parents made clothes and materials for a living. Would she be able to sell it?

"I've signed a deal with one of the factories," his mother told him, easing Jordan's concern. "I design the washers, they ship them out for us, and the factory takes 25% of the sale. It's just like a tax. It'll help."

Jordan nodded. The washer _was _pretty. "Where are they shipping to?" he asked, pressing the cold towel to his forehead.

"District Two. Should be interesting for them. Now why don't you go and change for this afternoon?"

Tensing, he stood up and silently passed the cloth back to his mother. Today was reaping day.

"Almost forgot," he told her, and produced the envelope from his pocket. Jordan took a moment to watch her smile as she tipped the coins into a jar, then headed off to find some nice clothes to wear, making certain not to think about Poppy.

* * *

**So, now you've met Fletcher, Dove, Fiesta and Jordan. What do you think? I'll post again soon with the other four young people this story will follow. **

**Thank you for your time and your reviews. **


	2. Chapter 2

**So, I was sitting there thinking to myself, I've got plenty of stories that need updating, a few assignments waiting for me, and washing up to finish. So what do I do? Start a new multi-chapter story, of course! The idea for this came to me tribute by tribute. But I didn't want to waste them on SYOTs or the like, just in case the author stopped posting or their writing turned out to be a disappointment. So I decided to make my own story - but I'd never get to know 24 tributes in time to write them, and the story would be long enough that I'd likely never finish it. So, here we are with the product of a few combined dust bunny ideas. Enjoy. I do not own the Hunger Games.**

**On with the story. **

* * *

The alarm woke Fletcher at 4:30am.

His first, traitorous thought was _this is far too early. _Then he remembered just what day it was.

Shoving back the covers with more force than was probably necessary, Fletcher rolled out of bed. He changed into a random set of clothes that was lying on his desk and began to stretch out, careful not to wake his father in the next room. By the time he'd stretched out his torso, arms and legs, he was fully awake. Fletcher's mind churned with excitement as he grabbed a slice of bread from the pantry and headed out the front door.

_Reaping Day today. _

Fletcher began to jog along the street, stuffing the bread in his mouth. He couldn't see anyone else awake, but then he'd been quick this morning. It was eleven minutes to five, and along the eastern skyline a spectacular blend of pink, orange and gold unfurled as the sun began to rise. Fletcher barely saw it.

_Fourty-third Games, winner Joel Charles, District Five. Won by dropping a pebble off a cliff onto his competitor's head. Fourty-fourth Games, winner Ivy Blake, District One. Won by stabbing her Career pack while they slept and killing the other tributes one by one. Fourty-fifth Games... _Let it never be said that Fletcher Davis wasted a second of his time. He even considered strategy while doing his morning exercises.

Four minutes to five. One of the trainers in the Academy had mentioned once that fine detail can be hugely important. Fletcher had mentally jotted down the note and had never forgotten it, even for a moment. He checked his watch again. Three minutes to five.

Increasing his jogging speed, Fletcher pondered his pre-Arena strategies as he watched District Two pass by. The sun had definitely broken over the horizon now, and the street was glowing in the golden light. Morning dew glistened on the garden beds. As he passed, Fletcher categorized the plants. _Edible... non-edible... non-edible... healing properties... _His steps faltered and slowed as he passed a rosebush.

His mother's name had been Rose. She had died when he was just seven years old. Ill, the doctors had told his father. No cure. Sorry. As though 'sorry' would make it alright. She'd made him promise, though. Promise to make her proud of him. He'd been determined to do just that ever since.

Fletcher was eight when his district produced another Victor. He'd watched the screens, fascinated, as Marius Crest had received his crown, received the adoration of the Capitol, received fame and fortune and pride. And then he knew just how proud he could make his mother. Fletcher broke into a sprint.

Ever since then, Fletcher had trained the hardest to win the Games. When he was at home, he watched reruns of old Games with his father, talked strategy, learned how to act. He was ready now. He was prepared. And he was going to do this, win this, for his mother.

* * *

As the sunlight dragged her from pleasant dreams, Dove cursed herself for leaving the blinds open. The previous evening, she'd been stargazing and daydreaming when her mother announced her bedtime. Reluctantly, Dove had turned from the window, thinking to herself that night-dreaming was just as good as daydreaming, and had drifted off without another thought on the matter.

Now she regretted her lack of foresight. The old clock on the wall told her it was barely past five. Dove groaned quietly. She knew she would never be able to get back to sleep, but the pillows were so soft, and the mattress was so comfortable...

But no. There was work to be done, and it was Dove's job to see to it.

She hoisted herself out of bed and plodded sleepily to the mirror, to check on the state of her bedhair.

Oh, good god.

Her platinum blonde curls that she was so proud of during the day were frizzy and pouffy, lumped all over her head and hanging in her face, and where was her brush? Dove didn't consider herself a vain person, but when one has beauty one has every right to enjoy it, and it was no secret that her hair was the prettiest thing Dove could take credit for. Dove would not allow anyone to see her like this, not even close relatives. _Especially_ not her brothers.

Having finally found her brush, Dove combed out the tangled and fluffed the curls out around her shoulders. _Much better. _

Once it was tied up and scooped back into a cap, Dove dressed quickly and tiptoed downstairs, tripping on the final step and crashing into the wall opposite. Loudly.

Oops.

Ignoring the sounds of her parents and brothers stirring upstairs, Dove wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her knee. She helped herself to a small bowl of last night's special, her mum's homemade pie. That was one of the positives of her parents owning a restaurant: the food was always top class.

On the downside, almost all of Dove's spare time was spent helping out in the restaurant, and even when she did have free time, her parents were much too restraining to let her go out. So Dove turned to her imagination for company when she could. Usually, though, the perks outweighed the downsides. Dove had heard a lot of people say that Brightly's was the best restaurant in District 6, and she was inclined to agree, although she'd never eaten anywhere else, obviously.

Finishing her mince pie, Dove stacked her crockery in the sink, wet a cloth and headed into the dining room out the front. She wiped down all the tables - all twenty-eight of them - and set the chairs neatly in place. She began to lay out plates. By the time she was finished, her older brother Gabe had appeared.

"Morning, you," she told him.

"Egh blff gfa," he grunted. Gabriel Brightly was a man of very few words, until at least his second coffee. Dove chuckled and adjusted a knife so the blade was facing inwards.

_Brothers. _She set down a final plate and went to put the kettle on.

* * *

It was barely eight in the morning, and Fiesta had already changed her mind more than three times. And there were still some ten hours to go before the actual reapings.

The red dress with the halter neck, or the strapless blue? The white satin was also appealing, but Fiesta had momentarily decided that at 6pm, she'd look more like a ghost than a strong tribute.

She slipped the red halterneck off and pulled the blue one over her head, examining the colour with her hair in the mirror. Fiesta bit her lip. Blue did clash a bit with her strawberry blonde hair, but the shape of the dress was just gorgeous.

No. She couldn't go with the blue and look like an amateur in fashion choices, choosing just because the dress itself was pretty. Fiesta wasn't a girly girl, but she did have looks, and her training had taught her to play up every advantage she had for the Games.

The red, then?

No. As nice as the neckline was, red was even worse with her strawberry blondeness than the blue.

Fiesta sighed and tugged off the blue strapless, tossing it behind her onto the bed. She tried the white satin dress on again. Pretty. With a touch of makeup, she'd look stunning. But, still, Fiesta was not a ghost. She unzipped the material and slung it over the back of her chair. The 'maybe' pile. Fiesta turned her attention back to her wardrobe. She stared blankly at her collection of dresses, too bored of fashion choices to think anymore. She tugged on a pair of sweats and a tight shirt, cleared her bedroom floor, and flipped up into a handstand.

Muscles straining to hold herself in place, Fiesta stretched her legs as far apart as she could get them, and then slowly, slowly, lifted them back into place. She held the position for a few beats longer, then flipped back into standing, breathing hard. Her head spun a little, from the inertia of turning upside down. She sank into splits and leaned as far forward as she could, reaching her hands forward. She concentrated on keeping her back leg straight. But Fiesta had been at a party all of last night - her last night at home for a while - and she was too tired to be bothered to work now. She flopped onto her front leg, resting her head against her knee.

Boy, last night had been _wild. _

Oh, no, it was nothing like THAT. Fiesta didn't know anything about pregnancy, but the last thing she needed was a coming baby distracting her throughout her Games. Last night, she and a bunch of other Careers-in-training had gone out on a boat together. It had been crazy, and there had been alcohol. Fiesta had been asked out like five times. But how good would it look, having a hungover girl volunteer tonight? Fiesta hadn't touched the alcohol, but she was about the only one, since her newly assigned district partner hadn't wanted to come. Fiesta's best friend Jaida had drunk herself sick - literally - and nearly jumped into the ocean. Fiesta was on patrol duty the entire night, but it had still been loads of fun. The best send-off she could think of.

Flopping out of her splits, Fiesta returned to the wardrobe. The only thing she was definite on was that the outfit had to match with her tribute token: a coral bracelet. The colour was light orange, and Fiesta didn't actually have any dresses that matched, but not clashing was good enough for her.

After lunch and a swim, Fiesta's hours for decisions were running short. Eventually, she decided to stick with the white satin - there would be lighting in the square, Jaida assured her, and anyway, wouldn't she be striking as a ghost?

Fiesta eventually agreed and at five-thirty she found herself in the swishy white satin dress, with the coral bracelet at her wrist and a thin silver chain around her neck. Her hair was braided in spirals around her head, collected into a bun and tied with a white ribbon. She looked as nice as she'd ever seen herself, and hopefully it would be enough for her to impress the audience.

Most of District Four's recent volunteers had been 18. Fiesta was only 17, but she was sure she was talented enough to get the job done. Plus, she'd been performing for an audience since the age of four - she'd be fine with a contest that she didn't even have to remember a routine for. And when she got to the Capitol, there'd be no drama about her outfit: a Capitol stylist would make those decisions for her. All Fiesta had to do was prove herself.

And that started today, in... twenty minutes.

Better get a move on.

* * *

Hands numb, fingers wrinkled like raisins, Jordan squeezed water from a white blouse and hung it over the rack. He shifted a few dry clothing items onto a pile, folding them neatly. He had to hurry with his work - this employer could be a constant, so Jordan had to make a good impression. He desperately needed a steady source of income.

Not so long ago - had it been a year already? - the Hemmings family had been fairly well off. Then Jordan's job at the factory had been cancelled, his pay cut. Sickness had taken over the family not long after. Jordan didn't even want to think about what had happened to Poppy. His life had been pretty average up until last year. Now, each way Jordan turned, he could see his life unraveling as nightmares became realities.

He dreaded to think what might happen today.

Jordan returned his attention back to the tub of freezing water, ignoring the pool of dread in the bottom of his stomach. He grabbed a random set of white clothes and began to scrub the fabric. He was currently working for a small, private factory, washing plain sets of clothing before they were coloured and adorned with patterns, ready to be shipped away. Trained away. Driven away. Whatever. Jordan was light on details - his job was to wash the white clothing, nothing more.

A quick glance at the battered grandfather clock across the room told Jordan that he had only a few minutes to finish up before his shift was over and he could go home to prepare. He snatched a pair of stretchy leggings and squeezed the washwater from the fabric. He pegged it on the rack and peered into the tub. Only a few more pieces to go.

Once the last sock had been pegged out to dry, Jordan yanked the plug out and watched the water swirl away as he dried his hands. He hung his plain apron in the closet and made sure the room was neat before heading out of his basement workplace to check out with his boss.

Upstairs, Jordan glanced over to the desk in the front room. Mr Cavenough, the owner of the private factory, was absent for the moment, but his daughter Bridget manned the desk. She looked up from a sketch as he came closer.

"Hi," she said, sliding the sketch away from Jordan's prying eyes. He could make out a skirt that fell in ruffles the the subject's knees, but no more. "Can I help you, uh..."

"Jordan," he supplied quickly. "Jordan Hemmings. I just had a three-hour shift washing the white clothing. I'm about to head off, so..."

"Oh, of course!" Bridget jumped up and opened a drawer in the desk. "Hemmings..." she muttered, searching through a collection of envelopes. She selected one and handed it to him. It was labelled with his name and his shift length. Jordan could feel coins inside it. Bridget handed him an extra silver. "For finishing early," she explained.

Jordan thanked her politely. She pulled the skirt design towards her again and offered him luck for the reaping. He returned the favour and hurried outside , clutching his envelope and slipping the silver inside it.

By the time Jordan made it home, the burning midday sun had drenched his clothes in sweat. He gladly stepped into the cool shade of his home. His mother made him sit down at the table, and busied herself at the sink.

"It's fine, really," Jordan protested. His mother was busy enough as it was. "I'm just a bit hot."

"Nonsense," his mother smiled at him. "Look, I've just been decorating a set of washers. You can try them out." She ran a white cloth under the tap and laid it over Jordan's forehead.

"I can't _see_ it now, Ma," he pointed out. She laughed and passed him another cloth. It was thick white fabric with ivy designs running up and down the sides. Pretty. But in District Eight, everyone's parents made clothes and materials for a living. Would she be able to sell it?

"I've signed a deal with one of the factories," his mother told him, easing Jordan's concern. "I design the washers, they ship them out for us, and the factory takes 25% of the sale. It's just like a tax. It'll help."

Jordan nodded. The washer _was _pretty. "Where are they shipping to?" he asked, pressing the cold towel to his forehead.

"District Two. Should be interesting for them. Now why don't you go and change for this afternoon?"

Tensing, he stood up and silently passed the cloth back to his mother. Today was reaping day.

"Almost forgot," he told her, and produced the envelope from his pocket. Jordan took a moment to watch her smile as she tipped the coins into a jar, then headed off to find some nice clothes to wear, making certain not to think about Poppy.

* * *

**So, now you've met Fletcher, Dove, Fiesta and Jordan. What do you think? I'll post again soon with the other four young people this story will follow. **

**Thank you for your time and your reviews. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi hi hi. I'm back with some more lovely Games for you. I don't own the Hunger Games, and can we assume that's true for each chapter, because I don't want to have to keep writing it. Please enjoy this third chapter. **

* * *

The Peacekeepers escorted Gravis into a simple but lovely room in the Justice building. They told him that his visitors would be here shortly. Gravis hadn't thought anyone would think to visit him - it was a mildly pleasant surprise. He sat on the squashy purple couch, keeping a dignified silence. He never was a man of many words. During school, beck when Gravis had bothered attending, his teacher had once tried to teach the class about poetry. Most of the class had complied, maybe a few even enjoyed it, but Gravis had refused to even look at the paper - silly, he'd thought, a waste of time and effort, unnecessary, useless.

Then the teacher had read one of the poems aloud, her voice spilling the lyrical phrases through the air where Gravis couldn't get away from them. In an attempt to breach Gravis's personal dislike of the poetry, she'd read out a love poem first. Gravis had been quite tempted simply get up and leave, but he hadn't wanted to make trouble for himself. So Gravis had sat and endured the hated poetry, until the teacher had reached the third stanza, and her voice had taken on a new, misty quality, as though she were speaking from a great distance.

_here is the secret that nobody knows_

_here is the root of the root _

_and the bud of the bud _

_and the sky of the sky_

_of a tree called Life, which grows;_

_higher than any soul can hope _

_higher than any mind can hide _

_and this is the wonder_

_keeping the stars apart_

The words had wrapped around Gravis, tucking themselves inside his shirt and over his shoulder and above his ear so that when he left the classroom that day, feeling profoundly _different, _they would whisper in his ear when his mind was quiet and shout when his mind was full. They wouldn't leave him alone. That night, as Gravis had lain on the couch, he fought sleep to ponder those words, and their elusive meaning.

As dawn unfolded, Gravis still lay awake, and the moment the first ray of sunlight pierced through the sky, Gravis decided that life was meaningless. True happiness could be found in death, and only in death. And from then on, Gravis could not be emotionally harmed, because he had faith in death and his life leading up to that moment was a mere distraction, and nothing could do his spirit harm.

In the meantime, though, Gravis sat on the couch and stared at the wall and waited.

Eventually, one of the trainers from the Academy came in and sat. The two young men were silent until the trainer wished Gravis luck, reminded him to keep his wits about him, and left.

Gravis stared at the wall and waited.

* * *

The Peacekeepers escorted a coolly collected Saturday and a madly grinning Fletcher into the Justice Building for goodbyes. Fletcher ignored Saturday as she calmly made her way into her private room. One Peackeeper gestured him into a second room and closed the door. Fletcher's dad entered the room.

"Fletch, my boy," exclaimed Mr Davis. "Come here, son." He pulled Fletcher into a hug, which Fletcher eagerly returned, crushing his father's portly figure with the muscles he'd worked so hard to build.

"Dad," was all he said.

"When you get into that arena, mind you don't forget yourself," Mr Davis reminded his son.

"I won't." Fletcher was not going to waste the time he'd spent training, but neither was he cruel. He'd kill the others as fast as possible and bring pride to his mother's memory, but he wouldn't endear the moments. He would balance on the gap between weak and bloodthirsty. And when he returned from the Games, he'd finally be able to move on, to let go. Finally he could be his own person.

Father and son sat together for the rest of Fletcher's hour for goodbyes, and then his father was removed from the room by a Peacekeeper and Fletcher was ushered into a gleaming car and driven expertly to the train station.

District Two's escort, Jebediah Von Gician, beckoned Fletcher into the train with a beaming smile.

"You'll absolutely adore it, look, the walls are this marvelous shade of cerulean..." Fletcher tuned out his escort and took in the train.

The walls certainly were a vivacious shade of blue, along with the table cloths and curtains. Fletcher rarely saw trains, as he didn't work in the district industry, but he knew most cargo trains didn't have tablecloths or curtains. They probably didn't have tables.

The doors opened and Saturday came in, taking in her surroundings in a calm and collected manner. As soon as the doors closed, though, she strode over to the table and began to examine its contents. Seconds later, the train lurched and they began to move. Fletcher's heart jumped with the train - soon, so soon. His moment was coming.

* * *

The door barely managed to close between Dove and the white-clad Peackeeper before it burst open again, and her mum barreled in determinedly. She clamped her arms around her daughter. Dove peered over her mother's shoulder and watched her brothers come in. Henry was obviously upset, but Gabe was putting on a brave face. He pried Dove out of their mother's arms and wrapped her in a softer hug instead. Mr Brightly trailed in behind his family, weeping miserably, and closed the door behind him.

Dove hugged her brothers and her father, struggling with tears herself. She was only fifteen. What had she done, that she needed to be sacrificed on live television for sport? She wasn't meat. She was a human girl with a life to live, friends who would mourn her, family who would miss her. Dove had done nothing. And dying for nothing was a terrible thing. She didn't want to go. She _wouldn't _go.

And yet, hadn't she always wanted an adventure? Most of her fifteen years had been spent in school, in the restaurant or asleep. She'd often wondered what life would be like if she hadn't been so sheltered (not that she was a particularly rough-and-tumble kind of girl, just one with a very active imagination). Often she'd pondered how much fuller her life could be if it was filled with excitement, fraught with danger. She pictured it as a very romantic life.

She wondered vaguely how much longer she'd live if her brothers had ever taught her how to fight.

But, Dove thought half-heartedly, she surely had _some _skills that could come in handy. She could probably make the Capitol people like her. With a bit of tweaking, she wouldn't look half bad. And she was fairly clever.

Such skills were useful. But they were nowhere near as vital as the ability to fight. And it remained that Dove's life was drawing to an end.

Her family didn't say much, they just cried, Dove along with them. As the door opened and a Peacekeeper beckoned them out, Dove had a final round of hugs and waved forlornly as her family trailed out.

Dove sat numbly and waited alone. The door to her room opened again and she looked up, rubbing at her face, as the school principal walked in stiffly.

"Ms Brightly," acknowledged Mr Meehan as she stood. "Allow me to be the first to offer my condolences."

"Thank you," Dove said cautiously. Why would Mr Meehan come and visit her?

Mr Meehan clasped his hands behind his back. "Ms Brightly," he began again, "I speak for the whole staff body and the rest of the school, I'm sure., when I wish you well and offer the said condolences. In fact, this is what I wish to speak to you about."

"I'm not sure I understand, sir." Dove told him.

"To be frank, you are one of our brighter pupils. Upon your graduation to senior school at the end of this year, you were considered for the prize of Middle School Dux. Litterarum I shall inform your parents of this detail through your brother when the opportunity arises." Dove blinked. She went to one of the more prestigious schools in District 6, and to be Dux (even of the middle school) was a great honour - not to mention the prize money. It was true she got very good grades - but good enough to be dux?

"Thank you, sir," she said again.

Mr Meehan's overly professional manner slipped for a moment. "Use your brain in the Games, Brightly," he told her. "If you come back, we'd welcome you back into our school." He turned away and strode out the door. Dove reseated herself, mind reeling.

She, Dove, nominated for Dux Litterarum. Dove, who'd been confined to working in a restaurant while the other students studied and ran shifts at the factory and talked to their friends. Dove Brightly, the blonde girl with her round face and slightly protruding stomach, who barely managed to scrape a B in gym class ... the smartest in the grade?

Surely not.

Dove felt a swell of pride for a moment. Then it was overwhelmed by reality - she wouldn't live to see which of her classmates would be chosen as Dux, see if her brothers would be considered for the same role. She'd never know if the restaurant ever closed. She wouldn't know when her brothers grew up, never be an aunty, or a mother, or anything except dead.

For that is the nature of such foul Games.

* * *

Mr and Mrs Goldhaven held their daughter and cried. Mr Goldhaven tried to relay instructions through his tears. He attempted to remind her that it was okay to hurt others in the Games, but the mental images of Promise causing others pain just couldn't be relayed in words. Eventually, her parents had to leave a trembling Promise, and she was escorted to the waiting train.

She didn't cry.

The boy who had become her district partner, Jordan, had been crying, though. His eyes were red and his cheeks were puffy. He looked brave and strong to Promise, though. She wondered if dying would hurt.

She wondered who would kill her.

/

Jordan looked down at the little girl by his side. _Promise Goldhaven. _The name was almost ridiculous - at least it didn't involve flowers. That would have been too girly for him to handle. But as it was, the name suited the petite child. She must be barely twelve.

Jordan's mother and father had held his hands and told him to do his best and struggled not to cry. Nobody brought up Meg, and certainly nobody brought up Poppy. His parents had told him not to lose himself in the arena - Jordan would not become a killing machine. The Capitol might murder, but Jordan refused to be so cruel. For that, though, he knew he would never come back.

But he didn't want to die. Images of Poppy came to mind unbidden - her trying to run, turning to look back and earning a spear through her torso for the trouble. A pulse of fear spiked through Jordan. First Meg, then Poppy. Now him. _I don't want to die. _His parents had told him to do his best - but the longer he lasted, the more he would suffer. Maybe it was easiest to jump off his platform before the gong, die on his own terms, before a Career could beat him to it.

* * *

**The poem used in this chapter was a section of e. e. cumming's I Carry Your Heart. I thought its mysteriousness would have touched Gravis and made him think about life, and being Gravis, he would have made his own decision. **

**Thank you.**


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